


down to ride till the happy end

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, F/F, Kissing, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: Me holds her back, and that makes Clara feel safer than she ever has.





	down to ride till the happy end

When Clara got herself a TARDIS, she wanted to make it look as close to her apartment on Earth as she could. She's done the weird alien bit, the round things, but she's done with that, done for a long time until the loop repeats itself, closes in on itself, and she travels back to Gallifrey after the long way around.

One of the first things she did was make herself a living room. She has the control panel, she has the diner, but that's just a front. In here, there's a carpet and a sofa and a window that looks out onto nothing much in particular. Me had minimal input in the decorating: on that, Clara was firm. Clara puts up artwork nicked from here and there. No real cohesive theme, just a collection of everything she likes or has learned to like.

They spend their days predictably. That was another point Clara wanted to solidify. The running has to stop at some point. Afternoons are spent in the living room listening to music on the stereo system Clara treated herself to. It's nice to have a routine: go off adventuring in the morning, crash here, then find somewhere to go for dinner (unless they make it themselves; after all, they've got full access to the best kitchen the 1950s has to offer).

Today they're listening to Wang Chung: Take your baby by the hand. It's the kind of thing he'd've listened to, but Clara doesn't want to think about that. There's a sort of freedom here: he doesn't remember her. He doesn't remember her, and she doesn't want to think about him. Instead she leans over on the carpet and asks what Me is thinking. Me takes a long, long moment to respond. The carpet is teal green; it doesn't quite complement Me's eyes, but close enough. Neither of them breathe, neither of them need to. Until Me does take a breath, perfunctory, as an indication that she's about to speak, and says "I love you."

Clara's somewhat surprised, but says "I love you" back instinctively without time to consider if she means it.

He'd once taught her that silence is just a natural component of music. The same is true of conversations. Me has a thing for silence, so Clara has had to get used to that, too. It makes the things that Me chooses to say have a greater weight than they would otherwise. She makes this declaration of love feel natural as anything, as though she's had time to think about it.

Has she thought about it? Clara wonders as she puts her head back on the carpet. (It felt too weird and awkward to keep leaning over like that, making eye contact with Me for so long.) The idea suffuses her body with careful warmth, as if a great and valuable secret has been bestowed upon her.

***

Since neither of them work (or have to, or, let’s be honest, want to), it's easy to just take a holiday. Besides, they're literally a short ride away from any definition of a beach, so when Me says "let's go," Clara doesn't have time to argue. Not that she would, really, since a change of scenery is always nice. She could do with a bit of tan as well; the TARDIS lights are a bit too fluorescent. Me grabs her sunglasses, then Clara's hand, and the two of them tumble out of the TARDIS doors with tote bags full of sun cream, aloe (out of habit, since neither of them are going to really burn, anyway), towels, and their bikinis.

There wasn't really time to change, so Clara shrugs off her clothes behind her towel. There's some awkward twisting involved but she manages the job before too long. She glances over to see if Me is done changing, too, so they can run into the surf together. Me's half naked, almost done with the ties of her bikini top. Her nipples are soft and pink. Points on the curve. Clara figures she shouldn't be looking, but she is, and now they've made eye contact, and Me raises her eyebrows - not in invitation, but as a genuine question.

Clara blushes and looks away.

***

With so much time on their hands, Clara and Me have become wine connoisseurs. But there’s also something about a bottle or two of rosé and something absolute crap on the telly. It makes Clara feel human. Same reason why she likes the routine that balances adventures with, well, this: regular contact with the mundane. Maybe that’s why he always had companions; she’s finally starting to understand him now. Something approximating that saying about absence and the heart.

Me is drunk, and so is Clara. Not that sloppy falling-down sort, more the cozy buzz. Clara sways forward on one elbow, grabbing for the bottle, and ends up slumped on Me. They start giggling, teasing about coordination or the lack thereof after hundreds of years, and the carpet brings out Me’s eyes, and she’s so warm, both of them are warm, so of course -

Clara prefaces it by asking if Me can feel kisses. She gets the raised eyebrows in response, but both of them are still giggling so Clara. Well. She’s not quite sure who kisses first, but regardless, they meet in the middle, Me back on the carpet and Clara now more solidly on top. Me hugs her.

A kiss is not a contract but it’s very nice. Kissing Me is familiar, Clara supposes. Familiar in that her lips are soft, just like Clara’s are. The kiss has a feminine gentleness with the same urgency of the hard edges that both of them have picked up and discarded over the fraction of eternity that they’ve lived through.

“I don’t want you to think I’m kissing you out of - because we travel together,” Clara explains, fumbling. She’s made that mistake before.

“I don’t,” Me replies. Her eyes are wide and honest. Clara hasn’t been with someone like that since - well, since Danny. It’s refreshing. So she kisses back. Her heartbeat moves between her legs, warm and wet and real. This, too, is familiar. Clara pulls Me closer - wants to feel her from the inside out, take her and make her - not sure what she wants to or has to prove. But Me holds her back, and that makes Clara feel safer than she ever has.

***

Would Me still - would she stay, would she understand if Clara admits she wants (needs) something more, to give Me more. Not better, just different. Someone to try it with.

Me’s eyes are wide and honest. There’s trust there, too, and it gives Clara some confidence. She vocalises what she wants. To say it out loud makes it feel even more real. She’s pretty sure her whole body is blushing. Me doesn’t immediately speak, but again, with her no words are ever wasted. Me doesn’t run, and Clara is so relieved that it’s a little orgasmic all by itself. She’s so tired of running. Instead Me kisses her, deep and sweet, and says that if it’s something Clara wants to try, then they should.

***

No magic or science or technology, just a nondescript store in London. (What a dump, Clara thinks to herself reflexively.) The staff are very helpful and mostly stay out of their way. Me harasses Clara with dick-shaped pasta and the total ridiculousness makes them both feel more at ease, even though Clara’s still buzzy with anxiety hiding around the edges of her consciousness.

The one they find is pink - not hot pink, but blushing close.

“Super girly, don’t you think?” Me asks, lifting it up, turning it in her hands. Clara’s a little mesmerised just watching Me hold it.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Clara replies, taking it carefully so she can feel it for herself. It seems somehow perfect. She wants it, to wear it, to be worn by it. To feel - to feel.

***

Clara fiddles with it, clumsy. The straps criss-crossing, the cock in the middle. Her whole body is overheating, especially her face, especially when Me cups it in her hands like she’s doing now. Me kisses her, soothing. Kissing is easy. That, at least, Clara can do.

In the living room, the heart of their home together, they move. It’s like Clara’s been spinning for so long that when she looks down, the earth tilts sideways. Me isn’t wearing anything particularly sexy; Clara wanted that. It somehow brings normalcy to the fact that ok, she’s going to fuck her half-girlfriend like this. And yet - it’s still sexy, or cute balanced with sexy: jeans and a t-shirt that clings to Me’s breasts (nipples soft and pink) with a little graphic of a dancing panda bear escaping from a zoo.

“You all right?” Me asks, lifting the t-shirt up over her head. She’s wearing one of those soft bras that amounts to two triangles of fabric. Clara can see Me’s nipples through it - they’re not soft anymore, but standing up underneath the sheer white of the cups. She needs to touch them, to know exactly what they feel like instead of just looking. When she rubs over them, Me whimpers, arching up into Clara’s hands.

“I’m all right.” Clara doesn’t meet her gaze. Something about Me’s eyes (teal) (honest) is a bit more than she can take right now. Clara takes off her own shirt and the cock sways a little. It’s such an adjustment: feeling something like that between her legs, big and heavy. Something she owns instead of being owned by. She’s earned that right: done with chasing, done with being confused, done with stupid mixed signals. This isn't about him. None of it is, not anymore. Clara is asking for what she wants and getting it for once.

So she looks back up, newly confident. Just see me, he’d said, and there’s truth to that here as well.

“Here,” Me says. “Let me - let me help you. Please?” Me pushes forward on her hands and knees, and Clara leans back. “No, wait.” Clara stops and lets her. She wants to wear it, be worn by it, but maybe she’s not ready for that yet. Me crouches a little, the cock arched up towards her lips. Holds it steady so she can suck. Her little cupid’s bow of a mouth opens up, wide, and she licks down the ridges of the cock - almost to the root.

The noises she’s making are filthy: desperate panting, drooling all over it, whimpering when Clara bucks up a little too hard. Clara shifts forward, coming to hold Me’s face like Me had done before to her. Except this time she can feel the little curve of the cock in Me’s cheek, shifting while Me sucks. The base sways down by Clara’s vagina, rubbing over her skin, hitting her clit every time Me bends to slurp more, more, more. It’s all so wet: Me sucking, dripping, and Clara’s own arousal leaking out from under the cock.

Me breathes through her nose, rough, and chokes a little. Clara tugs Me away from the cock, concerned, and Me looks up at her. She’s gasping, drool still wet down her chin. Me wipes it away absently.

“Was that - was it good?” Clara asks, concerned. “Did you like it?”

Me pauses. Those long, steady silences - at least this one has a note of comfort to it. She nods. “I think another question is whether you did.”

Clara’s kind of floored by that, if she’s honest with herself. Did she? She was so focused on Me, her mouth, the cock, that herself was almost an afterthought. Clara swallows. Her vagina is raw and wet beneath the strap-on, her body nearly limp even though she didn’t come. And that’s the thing, she realises. It doesn’t matter if she didn’t come, she wants Me to. Somehow she finds the words for that, tripped out half-articulated.

Me pauses for a moment to collect herself. Clara sits up. The cock shifts thickly; it’s wet from Me’s mouth, almost shiny, glistening. “Can you wipe it off first?” she asks Me. “There’s a towel in the kitchen I think.”

The least sexy of interludes, perhaps, but when Me comes back, towel in hand, Clara notices that her lips are swollen - from when Me sucked at the cock - she nearly shudders at the recognition. Me’s nipples are still hard through the fabric of her bra. Her breasts sway slowly when she moves the towel over the cock. She’s almost - almost jerking it, stroking up the shaft, aimless, pushing at the head of it. Clara moans. It’s like it’s become a part of herself.

And here it is, again - now given another charge while Me takes off her jeans, her underwear. Me asks again if Clara wants this, if it’s ok, and Clara does, she does, it is. Me lifts herself up, positioning the cock right by her vagina. Both are pink, the colours nearly indistinguishable. The insides of Me’s thighs are wet. So she wants this, too.

With a little gasp, Me slides all the way down the cock - my cock, Clara suddenly thinks, wildly. It’s hers, it belongs to her, and now it belongs to Me. Wetness once more - all of Me’s pooling, dripping down over the straps to meet with Clara’s.

Me’s face is all screwed up in concentration as she rocks her hips, experimental. She whines. “It’s - it’s so big,” she huffs.

“I’m sorry!” Clara exclaims, hugging Me close. The movement evidently did something to Clara’s cock inside Me, because Me full-on moans. “No - no - it’s good,” Me explains, with great difficulty, thrusting her hips again. “It makes me feel like I have to work for it.”

“So work for it,” Clara responds, which comes out more demanding than she’d intended. Clara can do that to someone who’s born, died, lived again - just like her - she can make them come, she’s going to make Me come.

Me thrusts down on Clara’s cock, half-kneeling, her hands on Clara’s shoulders. Clara kisses her because she doesn’t want to hear Me anymore, she wants to focus on this, herself, here now. Pushing into Me, Me pushing back. Me’s breasts are soft against Clara’s own.

She can still feel the base of the cock rutting up over her vagina, near her clit, but that’s all tangential, unimportant. What’s important right now is kissing Me, eyes closed, letting Me take back whatever control Clara was ever pretending to have.

Me comes slowly, like a shiver. It moves slowly down her spine; Clara can feel her stiffen under her hands while Me tilts back a few degrees shy of a full arch. Me’s orgasm finally travels through her stuttering hips and down into her vagina itself. Clara notices it by inches: tiny contractions first, followed by larger ones that are spaced out until they all rush together and Me murmurs “oh, oh, oh” - that last more of a wordless gasp than anything else.

Clara kisses Me gently, letting her come back to herself, take all the time in the world - all the time they have, really. Me slides off Clara’s cock, wincing. “You didn’t come,” she observes.

“I didn’t need to,” Clara repeats. It’s the truth. It was enough seeing Me come, to know she could because of Clara. Me smiles, lopsided, and kisses Clara. A quick meeting of lips, nothing more.

Perhaps that’s what this is, then. Something they can keep to themselves as much as they want, to give to Me without expecting anything in return.

***

They don’t ever visit the same place twice, out of some ill-defined principle. So when Me suggests they return to that beach, Clara is naturally surprised, but pleased. She asks Me to give her time to change, then they go to the consol room together. The consol room is white and blank, full of anticipation every time. Clara can practically hear the seagulls calling outside, the sea breeze, while they turn the dials together. There’s tinkling music instead of a vworp vworp when the engine starts up. Clara and Me like to change their ringtones every now and again.

The TARDIS doors open onto the sand. There are British beach goers off in the distance, but the thing is: people learn to ignore the unusual, even if it’s right in front of their faces. Clara takes her sunglasses off the top of her head and slides them on. Me’s already wearing hers. It makes her look mysterious, inviting.

Clara reaches out and they run, hand in hand, into the surf.


End file.
